


The Spoils of War

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, RoK_Round21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the System Lords' war against the Tau'ri, the last Goa'uld commander faces his Queen and is... rewarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spoils of War

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Timeframe is roughly around Continuum, but lots of things have been changed. Lots and LOTS of things.

He stands, though his legs are shaking, and his skin is so cold, every bone is weary. Stands, because it’s defiance against the horror wrought. Stands, because if he falls, he might not have the strength to get up again.

Heels clack on the tiled floor. He straightens a little more, lifts his head, proud and undefeated. He does not think of the cost of victory. Cannot, least he break and his composure is a thin shield, a fraying strand of sanity in a universe gone mad.

She strides into view. Her uniform is a torn dress and make up that’s smeared. She has been crying and he doesn’t blame her. Her blond hair drifts around her face, as lost as she is. And yet he sees the determination in her blue eyes, the iron in her spine. Bruised but not broken. He smiles at the thought.

“They’re running?” It’s not a true question, but he nods.

“Of course. I would not let them take what is yours.”

She smiles at that, but it fades as she takes him in. “At a cost.”

His mouth goes dry. “You are worth it, my queen.”

“Am I?” she comes closer, and he loses the ability to breathe. Even a minor Goa’uld has no business idolising a System Lord, but he here is, lost in the blue depths of her haunted gaze. “You have always been so faithful, Baal. I wonder if there is a limit to your loyalty.”

Heat flashes through him; anger, arousal, emotions he cannot name. “There is none!”

Her eyebrows lift. “You could have my power for yourself. Take your place amongst those left of us. You have enough imagination and ability to become the greatest.” She tilts her head, touches his cheek. Her hand is warm as she wipes away the blood. “Is that not tempting?”

“I am yours, my queen.” He puts his hand over hers, leaving her white skin red. His symbiote heals his wounds, but he would bleed out for her, if it came to it. “I will be yours always.”

She sighs and drops her hand. “And yet look at what I’ve made of you. You’re trembling. Come; let’s relieve you of those bloodied clothes.”

He’s torn, because his queen should not demean herself with menial tasks, but on the other hand he wants to be naked for her. He wants to abase himself, wants to prostate himself, wants her to use him in any manner she sees fit. It’s a madness; red and hot and blinding. It roars in his ears, deafening him to the memory of dying screams.

His fumbling fingers are stilled by her hands. “Let me.”

And he does. Stands there, breathing sharp and tight, cold skin tingling as heat licks at every fastening undone, every light brushing touch. He is hard before she’s done, but no censure darkens her face. She steps back and looks, and he stands tall to let her see what she has made of him.

Her bottom lip catches between her teeth. Colour stains her cheeks. “You are beautiful,” she murmurs, then captures a hand and leads him into the deeper chamber, the forbidden room where he has not dared to step.

There is a sunken bath, brimming with steaming water. The only illumination is the candles scattered around. In the aftermath of battle, it seems the most decadent of luxuries, but then he slides into the warmth and no longer cares. The universe can go to hell. He’s cocooned in the darkness, in the womb that is her sanctuary.

His queen loosens what is left of her hair-do and slips the dress. Golden candlelight lends a blush to her white skin, dances shadows under the swell of her breasts and in the valley between her legs. She descends the steps into the bath, the Goddess coming down from heaven, and then moves towards him with a smile that he wants to die for.

She takes up a sponge and begins to wash him, cleansing away the blood that covers him. It is not all his – he has fought, for her, killed in her name. This is apparently his reward, and how long has he craved her attentions? A small smile curves her lips.

“My queen?” he ventures, curious at what he finds so amusing.

“You want me, don’t you Baal?”

He frowns, fearing a trap. “I am your humble servant.”

She barks a laugh. “You could never be humble, even on your knees and at my feet.” She leans in then, imparts the briefest of kisses. “But a servant? Yes, you have been that, and your loyalty has not gone unnoticed.”

“I live but to serve.”

“Liar. You serve to win my affections. I know your mind, my beautiful boy. Never imagine that I don’t.”

“Then you know that I want you.” He captures her wrist, stilling her motions. “I will hide nothing from you, not even my desires. You have everything, my queen. All that I am is yours.”

She is so close. Her gaze bores into his eyes, reading his intentions. He cannot hide anything, though there is nothing to hide – he has no desire to claim power. All he wants is her. And she must see that, because she nods and pulls back, drifts to the side of the bath and then rises out of the water.

He watches her seat herself on the edge, her back pillowed on a pile of cushions. Candlelight reflects off the sheen of water, turning her skin to molten gold and droplets to diamonds. She parts slender legs, revealing the pink heart of her centre. His cock pulses.

“Pleasure me,” she demands, her voice husky. “Use that clever tongue for something more that silvered words.”

He crashes through the water, eager to obey. She is silk beneath his palms, smooth and sleek over hard muscle. They quiver at his caresses, but he does not dive to the point. He wants to take his time, to extend the moment, to enjoy the feel of her. So he strokes her thighs, the taut belly, moves up higher and kneads her breasts. Her nipples are hard buds and she mewls when he pinches them between his fingers.

Abandoning her breasts, he follows the curve of her body to the apex of her legs. The damp curls are a darker blond than the hair on her head, and she smells of musk and need. Her sex glistens with desire – a hunger he was wrought – and a flash of possessiveness races through him.

“If you are my queen, does that make me your consort?”

She rises on an elbow and gazes at him. “You want exclusiveness, Baal? Are you that sure of your prowess?”

“I want you. I want to be yours. I want no other to touch you as I do.”

“I should make you watch me bed another for such impudence,” she says and he growls, even as he heats at the thought. “But I think you might enjoy that on some level. Am I wrong?”

How can he deny her the truth? “No, but it shames me to admit such a thing.”

“Good. A little shame might ease the edges of your pride.”

He frowns, eyes on her sex. It torments him; urging him to touch, to taste. His first finger is parting the pink folds before he realises he’s moved. Her gasp fills the chamber. Oh, how he wants to hear her moan! He slips deeper in. she is hot and tight and wet. His finger slides on her arousal and she voices a whisper of sound. It’s not enough. He needs more.

A second finger racks her gasps to groans. His cock throbs with the need to plunge into her depths, but he dare not try taking that liberty. This is not about his pleasure, but hers. He will serve her, in whatever need she demands from him.

“Your tongue, Baal. Use your tongue.”

He bends to obey. She tastes of earth and honey, slick and sweet. Her fingers wind in his hair and she arches on a muted cry. He plunders her sex, thrusting his tongue as he wants to thrust his cock. She writhes and mewls and begs him for more. He pushes her legs further apart and holds her open. Two, then three fingers dive into her wetness while he latches on to the bud of nerves above her sex. Her cry bounces off the walls of the chamber, undoubtedly audible to anyone passing.

Good, he thinks. Let them hear. Let them know their queen is being pleasured so well.

He sucks harder and she tightens around his fingers. She’s gasping for breaths between long groans, her fingers grasping at his head, his shoulders. Her nails scratch his skin and he wants to shout. He wants to pull himself over her and fuck her until neither of them can take more.

“My boy,” she whispers. “So damn talented. So very beautiful.”

He hears her praise of him, and revels in those words. He will make her take him as consort, if he has to do this every day for a week. A month. A year. He will make her come over and over, convince her that he is all she needs.

Crooking his fingers, he finds a spot that makes her shriek. He bites down on the nub, just gently, but it’s all it takes to send her over the edges, screaming his name into the flickering darkness.

He lets his fingers slide out and watches her pant. His own need thunders through him, but there is nothing he can do to alleviate that until she gives him permission. She sags against the pillows, eyes closed as she fights to steady her breathing. It comes slowly, and all he can do is wait and want.

Finally she opens her eyes. Her gaze travels down and her smile widens. “We should do something about that,” she notes in a husky voice. He swallows, tasting her all over again. “Don’t you agree?”

“If my queen so desires.”

“Your queen does.” She gets to her feet and finds a robe, covering her nakedness. That action tells him that whatever she plans, him being inside her doesn’t seem to figure. “Get out of the bath.”

He does as she asks, because there is no option other than to obey. She offers him no means to dry off, but beckons him towards a frame. He pads over, leaving wet footprints on her floor. Her smile is mysterious. She pushes him backwards, so he is lying at a slight angle, his body supported by the frame. Then he is cuffed into place.

She brings a bowl out of the shadows. Liquid sloshes, smelling of dark and exotic spices. She dips in a finger, then draws a line on his chest. Oil. It mingles with the water still clinging to him, creating a silken slide over his skin. She adorns him fully, taking some time to ensure his cock is well coated. Then she steps back to admire her handiwork.

This seems to be a hidden signal, for two slaves enter the chamber on silent feet. Both male, they are as dark-haired as he, their skin the same colour of bronze. White robes cover their bodies. They take up positions by the frame, awaiting the order of their queen.

She lays herself opposite, still smiling. A nod at the slaves starts their actions – they stroke his skin, finding his nipples and cock. Their hands are too large, too rough. He writhes as pleasure sparks, ashamed at his helpless responses.

A third slave enters, this time naked. He watches, aghast, as the man lays on the floor, cock standing to attention. His queen smiles wider and sheds her robe. Her gaze does not leave his face as she sinks onto a cock that is not his.

“You do not get to say what I will or will not do,” she says, as if he has missed this point. “My body is my own, to pleasure as I desire.” Her smile is wide and sharp. “As yours is my plaything.”

There is nothing he can say, nothing he can do but watch her rise and fall as the slaves work his cock. Her moans of pleasure mingle with his grunts of frustration. The sight of her coming again is his undoing, and his seed splatters on the floor.

“Release him and leave us,” she orders, lifting off the slave she’s fucked. All three obey her. He is left standing, just, naked and ashamed. But she is not done. “Kneel.”

He does, because he has no more pride. She walks over to him, naked and victorious, and lifts his chin. Her gaze is gentle, her smile soft. Her fingers caress his cheek, smooth through his hair. “Now,” she breathes. “You are truly my servant.”

Tears prick at his eyes. “Yes, my queen.”

“Ah, my beautiful boy, don’t weep. You had to learn your place if you are to be my consort. I must be your sovereign in all things. That includes how, and you, gives you pleasure. I will accept nothing less than your total obedience, your total surrender.”

He gazes up, deaf to the frantic whispers of his symbiote. Its desperate claw for whatever power it could gain resulted in only shame. He does not doubt she would torture him again should she deem it necessary. Bowing his head, he gives up. “I am yours, completely. Do with me as you will.”

“Better.” Again, she raises his chin, awarding him with a longer kiss. “Now, should I let you pleasure me?”

What he wants is unimportant. She is everything. “If my queen desires.”

“Good boy.” She pets his hair, then steps back. “Rise, Baal.”

He clambers to his feet, though he bends his head. She takes his hand and leads him to the large bed. A motion directs him on. He lies on his back, only grateful for how she straddles his thighs. She takes his still-hard cock into her body. It feels wonderful and he grits his teeth against the urge to thrust up. Her pace is slow, teasing. He groans and fists at the sheets.

“Do I need to tie you down?”

“No, my queen,” he pants. “I will obey you.”

She lifts off, leaving him wanting. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, but please… please, my queen. Have mercy.”

Her laughter shivers over his skin. Her lips tease his apart and he tastes her tongue. She must taste herself on him, and that thought makes him groan again. Then she drops and he shouts in shock. Her grip on his wrists is like iron and she rides him hard. He falls into the dark pleasure of it, only vaguely aware of the sound that wrench from his throat.

“I have no mercy,” she tells him. “Come for me.”

So soon after, he should have nothing left, but the pleasure is too much. Pain grips his balls, flares through his cock. He cries out and climaxes a second time. Then shrinks out of her, spent. And he knows, even before he opens his eyes and sees it, what expression she wears on her face. It is one of victory, because she has beaten him as surely as he defeated the forces that rose up against her.

Clearing his throat doesn’t ease the huskiness of his voice. “My queen.”

“Yes, I am.” She gets off him and sits on the bed. She strokes his oiled chest, then reaches for the covers, hides his exposure from the shadows. “Do not forget it.”

“I will not, again. Do you forgive me?”

“I’ve made you my consort. I believe that says enough.” She settles in the bed, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. He dares to curve his arm around her and she smiles. “I would not have chosen any other, you must know that.”

“I feared otherwise. I am a jealous man, my queen.”

“Oh Baal, there is no reason for that.” She laughs and then kisses him. “Who else has been so loyal, who else would have fought so hard for me? You hid your feelings well, but I knew where your heart lay. Those emotions we deny having but drive us to such death and destruction.”

“I could not lose you, my queen.”

She says nothing, though her blue eyes shimmer with tears. He cannot blame her – who could watch a universe descend into war over them and not be moved? – but he will not let it harm her more than it has. He draws her into his arms.

And Samantha Carter, traitor to the Tau’ri, Queen of the System Lords, curls against him with a sigh and falls asleep, while, beyond her secret chamber, the fires of the war fought in her name slowly die out, leaving nothing but dust and ash.


End file.
